


Agnes Says “Choofe Your Faces Wiseley”

by My_Good_Omens_Hackverse



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24493186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Good_Omens_Hackverse/pseuds/My_Good_Omens_Hackverse
Summary: Yay, another body swap fic! Just what does happen after our heroes get on that bus?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 20





	Agnes Says “Choofe Your Faces Wiseley”

**Author's Note:**

> Written in present tense (sorry), and sorry for all the bad spelling and creative punctuation. Thank you very much for reading ☺️

Crowley and Aziraphale are on  a bus,  having  just  averted the Apocalypse. They are on a bus because what remains of  Crowley’s Bentley is  rudely  scattered across the tarmac at the American air base, and none of the other vehicles (Madame Tracy’s moped, Mr. Young’s car, and whatever it  is Newt drives)  has any room for them.  Crowley  had pointed out that if they each possessed a human they wouldn’t be taking up any extra space, but Aziraphale wouldn’t hear of it.  “Borrowing” an air base jeep was also politely nixed.Crowley is out of ideas, but he  isn’t cross with Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who had lost most of what he had in the world in the fight against Heaven and Hell.  So that  leaves a heart-heavy angel and a mildly exasperated demon  making use of public transportation.

The bus trundles heavily and, well, bus-like through the evening, past quiet houses whose occupants are unaware of their collective brush with Finality. Aziraphale doesn’t object when the bus driver takes a detour that is unannounced (and unacknowledged, at least by mortal consciousness). As they near their stop, Crowley grows increasingly uncomfortable. 

“My dear,” says Aziraphale, turning to Crowley, “are you quite alright?”

Crowley raises his eyebrows,  his bottom lip shrugs. “Why do you ask?”

Aziraphale puts  his hand on Crowley’s knee, which is bouncing tensely. “You’re  going to shake this poor bus apart, and then we’ll have to walk the rest of the way.”  


“Ah, Aziraphale,” thinks Crowley, “the consummate and literal gentleman.” His leg comes to rest, but he can’t relax. He seems instead to be transfixed by Aziraphale’s hand, which is still resting on his knee. Aziraphale notices Crowley staring and self-consciously gives Crowley’s knee a pat before returning his hand to his own lap.

Crowley stands as the bus  slows. He grips the bar above his head, squeezing until the metal starts to give. He braces himself, but not against the movement of the bus. “Just come up for one minute,” he says to Aziraphale. “Please. There’s something I need to tell you. ”

Aziraphale suddenly feels very fidgety himself. “Can we talk about it in the morning? I was hoping to look at the bookshop - or whatever’s left of it.” He can think of a hundred reasons why going up to Crowley’s is a bad idea, but he doesn’t really want to tell Crowley ‘no,’ in part because he’s never seen him so anxious. Well, except for that one time when he had tried to convince Aziraphale to leave all of this behind for Alpha Centauri…

Crowley glances around nervously. “It can’t wait, angel. ”

Aziraphale  agrees reluctantly, but  once on the sidewalk  he finds  he is relieved to be free of the bus, which had started to feel  a little  claustrophobic.  He watches it drive away.  “Crowley?”

“ Wot?”

“You didn’t, er, tempt me just now? Did you?”

They walk toward Crowley’s building. “Angel. I can’t actually tempt you – not really. You know that.” This isn’t technically true, but Crowley has always thought it rude to use his talents on a friend. It’s important to him that Aziraphale’s decisions are entirely his own. That said, tempting is Crowley’s favorite thing about being a demon. The beauty of it is that it’s just persuading people to act on ideas they'vealready thought up. “Anyway,” he mumbles, jabbing at the elevator button, “’tempting’ assumes a lot. I prefer ‘earnestly encourage.’”

The elevator doors open into Crowley’s flat. Aziraphale smiles as he runs a hand over the familiar sculpture in the foyer. He looks at the concrete walls and ridiculously high ceilings and feels a bit intimidated in spite of himself. Crowley takes off his sunglasses and stows them in his jacket pocket as he watches Aziraphale take everything in. He sees a small wave of worry cross his friend’s face and feels it wash over him, too.

“Let me show you something , angel. ” 

Aziraphale follows Crowley into the next room, which turns out to be Crowley’s bedroom. Aziraphale swallows. He would feel a lot better if he had some (or any) idea what Crowley wanted. Or if he, Aziraphale, knew what he wanted himself. But one after another his thoughts scatter in a million directions, and he gives up chasing them.

He watches Crowley sit on the edge of the bed and, with a nervous and slightly apologetic  gesture, invites Aziraphale to have a seat next to him. Aziraphale opens his mouth to tell Crowley that under no circumstance…. and then he is sitting on the bed. Next to Crowley. Aziraphale glances at Crowley, a little irritated. Bless it, he is _sure_ that one was a temptation.

“Lie back, Aziraphale,” says Crowley softly. This time, Aziraphale actually manages a sound that is meant to be an adamant refusal, but is actually just his breath catching in his throat. “I won’t bite you,” Crowley says. Crowley lies back, one hand resting innocently on his stomach, the other safely pinned under his head. His yellow eyes, free of their sunglasses, look directly into Aziraphale’s and into everything Aziraphale has ever been and will ever be. And then, like the dramatic reveal of one of his magic tricks, Aziraphale understands why he is here. He finally accepts fully whose side he his on and that, come what may, there is no turning back. Not that he wants to turn back. What he wants is to share this moment with his friend. So he lets himself sink into the (surprisingly soft) mattress next to Crowley who is smiling shyly at him and pointing at the ceiling.

Aziraphale reluctantly turns from Crowley’s eyes and looks up. 

The entire sky is where the ceiling should be. The view is endless – beyond what the flat’s four walls, or even the horizon, could ever contain. It’s like they’re lying on their own bed-size planet, surrounded by the night. A sweet smelling breeze draws its soft wings over Aziraphale’s face and cools the single tear that slithers toward his ear. The stars are beautiful, but he prefers Crowley’s eyes, and he turns to see Crowley grinning at him. “Crowley! No wonder you spend so much time asleep!”

“Oh! No, angel. There’s usually a mirror on the ceiling,” says Crowley sheepishly.“I did this tonight. For you.” 

Before Aziraphale can  stop stammering, Crowley raises up on one elbow and turns toward  him. “There is something I need to say.”Crowley, though,  doesn’t seem able to continue, as he  watch es his  own  fingers  play with a button on Aziraphale’s  waist coat . 

“Go on,” Aziraphale says,  his voice little more than an anxious whisper. 

“I … have it on good authority that I may not have … that my role in Armageddon was, shall we say, strenuously underappreciated.” Crowley clears his throat. “By Hell,” he adds, in case it wasn’t clear. 

“Well, Crowley,” says Aziraphale, “I’m sure Hell has more pressing things to worry about; Satan did just lose a son and – “

“Exactly! Because of me! Adam’s is the one soul in all Creation Hell will not abide losing.” Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s disquiet growing to match his own. He takes a deep breath in a futile attempt to calm himself (“funny, that usually works,” thinks Crowley). “What I’m trying to say is that I don’t like my chances after tonight. If you know what I mean. What I mean is that I … need to say goodbye, angel.” The look that passes between them is pure pain.

“What, ‘goodbye’,” says Aziraphale, his tone aiming for ‘casual incredulity’ and instead squarely hitting ‘rising panic’. “Don’t tell me you’re actually going to Alpha Centauri? Without me?”

Crowley shakes his head. “It’s too late for that,” he says. “But that’s not important – “

“‘ Not important ’?!”

“I love you, Aziraphale.” The words spill out of Crowley so quickly it’s a miracle they’re in the right order. “There,” he says, still more anxious than a demon has any right to be. “That’s the important part.” And so it is. There. Out in the world and not just pent up inside him. After more than 6000 years, he’s finally confessed, and all it took was his own impending doom. They both blink, stunned. Neither breathes. It’s very quiet. The only sound is that of resolve and determination hardening around Aziraphale’s heart.

Crowley gently wipes a tear from Aziraphale’s cheek and gives him a lovely little half-smile. “Huh,” he says “I was half expecting your tears to be holy water.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale swallows hard, “I will _not_ live without you.” They both know that Aziraphale means this literally; that it’s not a figure of speech dressed up to fit the occasion. Aziraphale also knows, with a certainty he’s never felt before, what he has to do now, even if he can’t say exactly why. “I love you, Crowley,” he says, and with that, he pulls Crowley closer and softly kisses him. It starts softly, anyway.

Aziraphale’s lips, touching Crowley’s, burn with a current like electricity – he feels it course all the way through him, down to the ends of each finger and toe and strand of hair. An energy like a coiled spring with the power of a thousand oceans grips him and he is on top of Crowley suddenly and without thinking. A small part of Aziraphale’s brain, getting tossed about in its own private maelstrom, wonders if this is what it’s like to be a demon. The rest of him only cares about making the storm stronger, but he stops when he hears a surprised gasp beneath him. A gasp that sounds oddly familiar…

Crowley, as Aziraphale kisses him,  has time to feel an  expansive calm spread through him – a peace that knows nothing of  fear or  sorrow or doubt  or dark places with horrible smells  – before he finds himself on his back with Aziraphale astride him. He gasps – a sound that  is not at all familiar…

Crowley and Aziraphale are nose to nose. All  Aziraphale  knew in the moment was that he  had to be  as close to Crowley as possible.Immediately.  And so he is. Except the face he sees an inch from his own is… his own. It’s like looking in a mirror, down to the horrified expression on his (Crowley’s?) face.

Crowley cocks his  now blond  head and narrows his  soft  hazel eyes (complete with round pupils).“Do I... do I look like you?”  He asks, not  at all  sure  t hat he wants an answer. “Because you look  _ exactly _ like me.”

Aziraphale, still  feeling a bit electrocuted, sits up  a little unsteadily. “Well, we didn’t explode. Not literally, anyway.” It’s all he can think to say.

“I might actually prefer explosion,” says Crowley, briefly wondering what  snark looks like coming out of his new, angelic face.

Aziraphale, glares at Crowley, then runs a finger along his own cheek (the one that looks like Crowley’s). “Is it permanent, do you think?”

Crowley  sits up as far as he can with a very strange looking angel in his lap. He  reaches inside Aziraphale’s (Crowley’s? This is very confusing) jacket pocket and draws out his sunglasses. He puts them on and scowls. “Kindly dismount, angel. I  would very much like a drink .”

________________________________

The sun rises on Crowley and Aziraphale on Crowley’s balcony. Aziraphale sits straight-backed with a cup of tea (it’s first thing in the morning, after all), and Crowley, straddling a chair, has a tumbler of whiskey (it’s first thing in the morning, after all).

Crowley knows he should be worried about being dragged to Hell and summarily extinguished, but there is something else that’s more important. “Angel,” he says slowly. “Have you ever been in love? Besides me, I mean?”

Aziraphale raises his eyes from his mug to see Crowley studying him, his expression mostly hidden by his sunglasses that look so sweetly wrong on his altered face. Probably for the best – Aziraphale is sure he couldn’t bring himself to say what he’s about to say while looking into his own eyes. “Crowley, I’ve loved you for almost 6000 years.” He smiles at Crowley’s raised eyebrows that the sunglasses can’t hide and at his jaw that has fallen open a bit. “I’ve met plenty of fascinating humans, of course, but I’ve only ever felt a kind of…” he stops, searching, “a kind of responsibility toward them – to be kind, you understand. As for other angels,” he says nothing more, but shakes his head sadly and then queasily as a picture of Sandalphon stretched out naked on a bearskin rug appears, unwanted, in his head. A contemplative silence settles over and around them. “Love doesn’t seem to have been meant for immortals,” says Aziraphale after a while. “We were created to love God, but we never had a say in the matter. ‘Love’ in that sense feels more like ‘serve,’ don’t you find?” Crowley doesn’t answer but takes a deep drink. “Have you ever loved anyone?” asks Aziraphale. “Besides me, I mean?”

Crowley shakes his head. “ No.  Only you. But I’ve loved you for so long,  angel,  I’ve forgotten what it’s like to  _ not _ love. You.”

Aziraphale smiles and says “It’s always been  quite  nice, you know, knowing you’re always close by , looking out for me. To think, my guardian ange l is a demon!“

Crowley  gets up from his chair, rolling his eyes. “Yes, so very ironic,” he  drawls. Amazing how angel humor makes him want to laugh and leave the room in disgust at the same time. Crowley looks out at London and over the familiar rooftops and streets.  Out of habit he locates Aziraphale’s bookshop, or rather, where Aziraphale’s bookshop used to be. Or rather... “Aziraphale! Look!” 

Aziraphale, hearing the urgency in Crowley’s voice, hurries over. He follows Crowley’s pointing finger to –  “ My bookshop! ”

They lean over the balcony to see what appears to be Crowley’s Bentley parked neatly at the curb. “Is that my car?!” squeaks Crowley. “Can’t be. I wouldn’t be caught discorporated parking like that.”

Aziraphale is beside himself  with relief  (when has anyone ever been able to say that literally?). “How  wonderful,” he says,  “everything is as it should be! ”

Crowley gestures to his face incredulously. “THIS is how it should be??”

Aziraphale winces. “Well, with a few, notable exceptions. But in every other way it’s as if the Apocalypse never nearly happened! As if the world has no memory of yesterday at all!” Aziraphale fights back tears of joy – all those books and mementos; the hundreds of years of work he had dedicated to his shop that had been so cruelly taken away, was now miraculously restored! Has God forgiven them? “Crowley, do you think Hell and Heaven were somehow made to forget too?”

Crowley wants to agree, but he remembers Hastur’s words: “Hell will not forget. Hell will not forgive.” But he doesn't want to rain too hard on Aziraphale’s parade. “Anything’s possible, I suppose. They might not know about … you know … what happened last night.” 

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale patiently, “I hardly think one kiss is anything to…”

“N- no, not that, our faces,” sputters Crowley.  He’s  reasonably sure that sometimes Aziraphale is purposefully dense just to get to him. He believes this because Aziraphale is very good at it and seems to have gotten better over the millennia, the way one does when one is honing a skill. Aziraphale  has no problem admitting this to anyone but Crowley.

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. “Oh! Of course! Yes, our faces! Agnes said ‘choose your faces wisely’! Do you think we can somehow use this to save you? ”

Crowley frowns. “Not if that means you’re taken in my place.  How would that be any better?” 

Aziraphale smiles \- Crowley’s protective side is endearing, even now, when he doesn’t look like himself. “If they truly want to destroy you,” says Aziraphale, “what would they use? My sword would work, but I think that particular piece of hardware is safely elsewhere.” Aziraphale turns a curious shade of very pale green. “Although it would bring everything full circle.”

“I see what you’re getting at, angel,” says Crowley, “but most demons are terrible at irony. ”

“Holy water, then,” says Aziraphale. “Isn’t that how you dispatched  Ligur?”

“Ah yes,” says Crowley, “using my own weapon against me, now that seems much more likely.”

“Just so,” says  Aziraphale. “Holy water can’t hurt me. All we have to do is convince Hell that I’m you –  I already look like you – what could be easier?” Crowley and Aziraphale look at each other, aware that they are each trying to convince the other that Agnes’ prophecy is the key to Crowley’s survival.  “It will work, won’t it?”

“Absolutely, angel,” says Crowley,  with a grin that he only ever used when trying to convince Beelzebub that he had everything under control. Beelzebub, if they were there, wouldn't have believed it on Aziraphale’s face, either.

“You will have to stop calling me ‘angel’. Temporarily, at least,” says Aziraphale. “And I’ll have to … degrade my posture somewhat.” He experiments with varying curvatures of his spine and pushes his shoulders up to his ears.

“‘ Degrade’, ” deadpans Crowley.

“ Well, really, I’ve never so much as slouched,” says Aziraphale. “ What a peculiar sensation!”

Crowley  crosses his arms, only a little bit offended. “That’s definitely not it.”

“Oh, how would you know,” asks Aziraphale, struggling through his physical contortions. “When was the last time you saw yourself walk down the street? And it’s no wonder you can’t stand up straight, Crowley, this watch must weigh five stone! ”

Crowley knows Aziraphale is  trying in his way to lighten the mood, but  it’s not working. His jaw stiffens and a small groan escapes. “We might actually need a miracle. Or,  _another_ miracle. How many does one get in a lifetime?”

“And for God’s sake,” says Aziraphale, “do try to scowl a little less!”

“Ugh, God’s is the last sake that I am doing this for,” says Crowley.

Aziraphale reaches for Crowley’s hands. “You know what I mean,” he says, fussily. “Here, hold your hands like this. It will work, Crowley. It will!”

Crowley glances at  his wrist (bare), and then at his (Aziraphale’s) watch, which  tells him it’s  not getting any earlier. There’s no sense in waiting. Any extra time  he and  Aziraphale  manage to steal for themselves  will only be spent fretting. He knows they can’t duck a confrontation with Hell forever,  and  stalling seems like  giving Hell more time  – to do what, Crowley isn’t sure – which is always a bad idea . 

“Alright, alright, this has to be good enough,” says Crowley. He gently pushes Aziraphale’s hands away and downs the rest of his whiskey. “I’ll check on the bookshop, you give the car a once-over, (don’t. Drive. It. “I wouldn’t think of it,” says Aziraphale), and we’ll meet at the park in an hour.” He hands Aziraphale his sunglasses. “You’re not nervous, are you?”

Aziraphale straightens his shoulders, aware he is breaking character. “I am probably going to Hell, Crowley. I’ve never been to Hell. I don’t suppose they would be swayed by a good bottle of Merlot?”

Crowley sighs. Aziraphale tries to smile and says “I didn’t think so.”

“You’ll be fine, angel, I promise. I won’t let anything bad happen to you. Besides, you know Agnes Nutter can’t possibly be wrong!” These are actually encouraging words, but it still feels to both of them like a final goodbye. 

Self love and creative kinks notwithstanding, few people  are interested in  actually  kissing their exact double. Certainly neither Crowley nor Aziraphale fall into this category. And so, before going their separate ways, they  are  content with holding each other tightly and reminding themselves that they will always love each other, no matter what, come Hell and holy water.


End file.
